Bittersweet Thorns
by The Illustrious Crackpot
Summary: Sometimes childhood events come back to haunt us.  Other times, they determine the patterns of our entire lives.


**Bittersweet Thorns**

(The Illustrious Crackpot)

"Now, now, children!" cautioned the teacher, a kindly-faced old duck, as the screaming kindergartners pushed past her and onto the playground. "Play nicely, now, and don't go running off!"

Few heeded her words, instead lunging for the swingsets and slide, trampling over smaller children who started to cry about the unfairness of it all. Some dove into the sandbox, burrowing into it and throwing clumps of grit at the nearest heads. Others chased each other haphazardly across the turf, engaged in a frighteningly contact-based game of tag. They were kids, and this was _their_ hour. And they clearly aimed to spend it as loudly as long as their lungs could manage.

All except for one little duckling huddled against the fence, as far removed from the chaos as was physically possible. He had his knees drawn up with a sketchpad balanced on his legs, so large compared to him that the effect was almost comical. But the boy was concentrating hard, a thick green crayon gripped tightly in his fist, moving it steadily against the paper. Every so often he would look up, craning his neck to see over the edge of his drawing pad, and squint at a wildflower poking through the ground just beyond his feet. Then he'd return to his drawing, meticulously smoothing out every wobbly line until he finally smiled, dropping his crayon and leaping to his feet.

"I've got it!" he cheered, holding the sketchpad out in front of him. His voice was high-pitched, like that of others around his age, but had a distinctive thick quality to it. The boy's smile widened and he kneeled beside the flower, shyly brushing a lock of thick black hair out of his eyes. Grasping the drawing pad, he turned it so that his picture faced the flower, nearly blushing in excitement as he did so. "It's you, Posy. Do you like it? I mean, if I had a magnifying glass, I'd be able to make it much better, since I could see all your little details...and maybe if I had some more crayons, but all I could get was this green one, since I didn't want to take too many from the classroom in case I lost some..."

Immeasurably pleased with himself, the duckling closed his sketchbook, hugging it possessively as he continued to talk to the flower. "You're a very pretty flower, Posy. I've got a flower in my front lawn that looks like you, only, only not as pretty. I think it's 'cus our neighbor's cat is always in our yard and stuff, and maybe she eats the flowers or does other stuff to them or something." His expression saddened, but only for a moment. "But she's still a very pretty flower too! Maybe you can meet her sometime, I mean, if it's OK for me to take you home and all. I'd try and dig you out now, only I don't want to break your roots or anything...I mean, I'm not good enough to tell where the roots are growing just by looking at a plant, and I'd have to dig you up first, and I don't want to hurt you by accident—"

Suddenly a shadow fell over the young duckling, and he began to shiver even before he looked up. There was a huge kindergartner standing just in front of him, a giant, hulking bulldog boy with a small fuzz of blonde hair on the top of his head. The duckling gulped, blue eyes growing wide as he slowly straightened up.

"H-h-hi!" squeaked the duckling, grinning as pleasantly as he could under the circumstances. He shakily extended a hand, hoping that this Neanderthal of a five-year-old would be pacified by an introduction. "M-m-m-my name's Reggie. What's y-y-yours?"

The bulldog merely snorted, peering down at Reggie through narrowed eyes. He was nearly twice the skinny duck's height, and looked to be at least three times his weight. Sensing danger, Reggie tried to back up a step, but the dog's hand shot out and grabbed his shirt collar, effectively holding him in place.

"What're you doing?" demanded the bulldog, and though his tone was as childish as was expected for his age, it was made more menacing by a sharp gruffness.

"N-n-n-n-_nothing!_" Reggie protested, too scared to even move. "I-I-I wasn't doing a-anything!"

The bulldog continued to watch him unsettlingly for at least half a minute. Then he whipped out his other hand, pointing at the wildflower just between the two boys. "You were talking to that dumb _flower_, weren't you?"

Even through his terror, Reggie gasped in shock and anger. "She's _not_ a dumb flower! Posy's very pretty, and she's smart too!" He pushed the bulldog away from him—though with his minimal strength he was only able to budge the boy an inch—and looked down at the flower. "Don't listen to him, Posy. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

"You _are_ talking to that stupid flower!" cried the bulldog, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at Reggie. "Are you CRAZY or something? Flowers can't _talk!_"

"She's _not_ a stupid flower!" Reggie repeated, more forcefully this time. Color was rushing into his face and, emboldened, he gave the bulldog another shove. Not having expected it, the child stumbled backwards, finally letting go of the duckling. "And flowers _do_ talk! Just not to us! They're living things too, that breathe, and think, and, and, and FEEL!"

The dog scrunched up his face in frustration. "_Flowers aren't alive_, you dummy! Flowers don't THINK, or FEEL, or BREATHE or anything! That's just STUPID!"

A small crowd had formed around them by this point. As always, the young children's instinctive magnet for cruelty had drawn them to a place where they could sense imminent violence.

"IT'S NOT STUPID!" shouted Reggie, who could already feel bitter tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. "Flowers _are_ alive! And—and—and _they're smarter than YOU are!_"

The spectators inhaled collectively, turning to one another. "OOOOOoooooooohhh..."

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK!" the bulldog screamed shrilly, and before Reggie could react, he had grabbed the duck's arm and roughly yanked him closer. A hard punch landed on Reggie's left cheek and he shrieked with pain, placing a palm to the spot as the tears came faster and faster.

"I _WON'T_ TAKE IT BACK!" he yelled, hiccuping on an unborn sob as he tried to pull away. "PLANTS **ARE** ALIVE, AND THEY'RE NOT _BIG_ AN' _DUMB_ AN' _MEAN_ LIKE YOU!"

Another fist came, this one landing on his bill and partially crumpling it. The surrounding mob began to jump up and down, cheering wildly. It didn't matter to them who won. All that mattered was watching someone getting the tar beaten out of them, which was their definition of entertainment. Of course, the victim _had_ to deserve it; after all, if they didn't deserve it, nobody would be hitting them in the first place, now, would they?

Reggie fought to keep from crying, but as the punches and kicks multiplied in number, it simply couldn't be held in any longer. He screamed, tears cascading down his cheeks, feeling more and more numb as the blows rained endlessly down upon him. Why was this happening? What had he done to deserve this?

When it stopped, he fell limply into the grass.

He choked, whimpering softly, and his head lolled to the side. The battered edge of his bill was merely an inch away from his beloved wildflower, which had somehow remained intact even through the massive trauma that had taken place above its head.

"...Posy..."

The bulldog sneered triumphantly down at him. Then, raising his foot, he stomped on the flower.

* * *

Before too long, recess was over and the children were safely inside the school again, shouting excitedly at their friends and trading various knickknacks with their neighbors. The teacher was too busy trying to prevent a riot to count exactly how many of them had returned, pulling at her gray hair and threatening to call the principal if the madness didn't end.

But one boy remained outside, cradling the broken flower in his hands, heedless of the blood that dripped down his cheek or the bruises forming across his body. And Reggie cried. For the fact that children could be so cruel, and that the world could be so unkind, and that anybody could heartlessly destroy a treasure of nature so beautiful as a flower, which had never done anything to harm anybody for as long as it had grown.

"I'm s-so _sorry_, Posy," Reggie sobbed, shaking from his grief. "So sorry...so s-s-_sorry_..."

He sniffled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Small drops of blood stained the downy white feathers, turning them pink.

"Someday I'll b—I'll be able to p-protect plants from people like th-th-_that_. S-someday...someday..." He coughed, and another wave of tears began to flow. "No flower will have to d-d-die again. I p-p-promise, Posy..."

Still sobbing, Reggie tenderly placed the flower in the grass, pausing only to pick up his sketchpad. The children had trampled it, and the page with his drawing was ripped and smeared beyond casual recognition. But still Reggie could see the indistinct outline of the picture, and so he kept it.

Tucking the sketchpad under his arm, regardless of the school still in session behind him, Reginald Bushroot slipped through the gate and tried desperately to escape.

But, as he would realize much later in life, escape was impossible.


End file.
